11 months with Bubba Boy...

11 months ago he burst forth from my body, and with him, a tidal wave of amniotic fluid and a river of misery. He was beautiful right from the start – that copper-coloured hair was something special, those black-brown eyes that were never blue, not even for a day. But he made me angry, because he wouldn’t do what babies were supposed to do, he wouldn’t do any of those basic, baby-ish things, and I used to ask why why why why why why over and over in my head. I’d be shushing and patting him in his cot while the other kids cried for me and struggled to wipe their pooey bums in the bathroom at the other end of the house, where I’d locked them away in an attempt to block out their happy noises – and to shield them from my growing rage. My beautiful, snuggly, overtired koala baby would not sleep in the car. He only screamed there, sometimes for an hour or more, and never to the point of exhaustion. He would not sleep in a pram. He would not suck on a dummy, or drink my milk from a bottle. He wanted me me me me every single moment of every single day. And I didn’t know how to break myself into three working parts. The anger, and the guilt I felt about being so completely dominated by him, and the guilt I felt about getting so angry at him, and the weariness, and the empty feeling that you feel when each second of the day is seen as one less second you need to endure… I remember it all and I putting it all here, even though it hurts to recall it. I stayed away from this blog because I couldn’t bear to face the words on a screen to cement it all and take it from the safe space of my brain… I can feel that stinging behind my eyes when I flick through the montage of his first few months. It was all grey, grey, grey, with bursts of sunlight every so often. A day when he surprisingly slept more than 20 minutes in a row… The first time he smiled at me… The way he looked when he slept on me in the Baby Bjorn, and how I was able to ignore the pain in my back, because he was beautiful and he was at peace. A friend showed me a photo of the inside of a mattress the other day – it looks like grey felt, with lots of tiny flecks of colour throughout. That was Judd’s first 6 months. And I wish it hadn’t been like that, but at least the colour was there… I guess. My koala boy is now nearly walking, and really talking – Mum, Dad, ta, “gog” (dog). His smile is this funny, tooth bearing, dazzling expression. His face is still dimpled, but overall he’s a little more slender than he once was. His feet are like soft pink balls with sausage toes attached, and his bottom is speckled with cellulite. He still doesn’t do what he’s “meant” to. He wakes up 1,345,612 times every night, and up until last week he was usually fed back to sleep. Now he’s only fed twice a day, but, boy, does he make those two events count. “Do you want booby Judd?” “Mmm!! Nyum, nyum, nyum…” He crawls over to me and his eyes are all huge and happy and he sniffs and licks his lips. And then he’s on, and he’s in his own little world, our little world, and I kiss his toes and stroke the hair that’s starting to grow into flicky layers around his ears, and I just adore him. We adore each other. His favourite song is “Locked Out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars. His favourite food is chocolate, but he also loves cold meat and bread. His favourite people, other than his parents, are probably Poppy and Otis. His favourite pastime is holding his penis! And his favourite moment of the day, other than the feeds, is the three-in-a-tub bathtime. I really need a photo of that.

Snippets...

I have failed to capture so much of this year, it’s been a harried whirlwind of new baby wonder and angst, toddler taming, house hunting, qualifications and career progressions and soaking up tiny wonders along the way… Here are some snippets: - Juddy sat well by 5 months, crawled and cruised at 7 months – totally skipped the commando stage – and has 6 teeth already, at 8 months of age. He also weighs over 10kg. His hair is redder and thicker, his eyes bigger, his thighs rounder and his smile sweeter than ever before. He is an unpredictable Bubba Boy, some nights sleeps quite soundly alone, other nights is only at peace in my arms. He bites and pinches without mercy. Loves eating pureed roasts and chocolate custard. Has no fear. Still breastfeeding 4 times a day – will keep it going awhile I think… He's my baby, my last, my final go at it. He smells a bit like the sea and is as yummy as can be. I just sniff him and eat him up all day long. - Otis lives in a world of his own making where pirates and superheros and Star Wars characters reign, and blood is often spilt - but if you die you can always use magic to be revived. If only it were that simple Matey! He loves books and drawing, building with Lego and blocks, crafting, eating anything sweet and cuddling those he loves. Continues to be a calm, compliant, obedient boy, and is a very calming influence on the other two. Has a tendency towards laziness – he’s a bit of a lounge lizard – which I am trying to change. Wants to be a builder, mechanic, fossil hunter, fireman and art teacher when he grows up. He’ll be busy! Is planning his Neverland-themed 5th birthday party. - Peggy. Stopped all night nappies and dummies the day she turned 3, as promised. Seems like she too should be getting a uniform and attending kindergarten orientation, she’s just so clever and confident. Just wants to be a Mum when she grows up. Likes to pretend she is the pink and purple baby. Loves skirts. Loves fairies. Wants a real fairy for a pet. Loves cooking, was so proud when I allowed her to cut with a paring knife for the first time yesterday. Loves to eat cheese, chocolate, butter and legumes, her favourite beverage is cold milk. She told off her doll for being “such a curious baby” the other day. She prances about practicing ballet moves all day long.

Things I love about Juddy – the ½ birthday edition…

The chub – the rolls, the weight, the heft of him. We call him custard boy because of his creamy skin and the way all that glorious fat wobbles. The multiple dimples in his face. The big triple chin. Yum. The eyes – the shape of Otis’, the colour of Peggy’s. Gorgeous. The hair – copper, soft, dead straight and growing and thickening rapidly. He never went through that awkward baby hair phase that the other two experienced. The smile – never has a face been so filled with pure joy. The look of him when I walk in the door after work – WOW. He looks entirely different when he smiles. Beautiful when serious and serene, cartoonishly cute when elated and excited. The smell – a cross between a sweet springtime flower and a bag of salty chips. It’s divine, I’m telling you. The kisses – open-mouthed, searching, full of love and gusto. He gives them on command. The babbling – the ‘mama’s and ‘dada’s and ‘baba’s have started. The nightly cuddles – yes, another co-sleeper. The best co-sleeper yet, in many ways. The sleeping has been so incredibly good and then so appallingly bad. A Karitane residential stay and a few psychiatrist visits are in my recent past. More on that to come. But for now, I am relishing the look of his silent, still face dimly lit by the small sliver of moonlight that comes through my bedroom window of a night. The fact that he’s mine.

Juddy, 5 weeks old...

Has a head of shining copper hair... Phil calls him "Coppertop".

Is a chubby, heavy thing, so unlike the other two were.

Has a face that echoes Oti's, with a few extra chins. And eyes that appear to be turning brown...

Loves his favourite ride - the Baby Bjorn

Fits into many a size 00.

Looks fab in bright blue.

Feeds well and often.

Enjoys the shower.

Dislikes the swing that we purchased for him.

Has very short sleep cycles, but can often push through and have a long sleep if I sit by the cot and firmly rest my hand on his back.

Refuses to take a dummy. We've tried numerous shapes and sizes.

Seems slightly scared of Peggy.

Smiles, crookedly and complete with dimples, a few times each day, with increasing frequency.

Brings us all bucketloads of joy.

Peggy's fears...

Peggy has always seemed so fearless. Determined and sure. But the last few months have seen her develop some fairly extreme anxieties, so extreme that they are starting to become a bit debilitating for her – and the rest of us.

It all started with the random, seemingly stray cat that would appear on our doorstep, or creep up behind us quit suddenly, numerous times per day. Phil uncovered some old tins of cat food under our house, so we are of the belief that the previous tenants fed this cat and thus made it feel welcome. I hate cats, always have, but I am not scared of them. I guess I just find them a little gross – all that dander and itchy-nose-inducing fur – and a little creepy. Anyway, she became very afraid of that cat. She started to try to avoid going outside. She’d watch from her window, her eyes screwed up with worry. She started wanting to be carried everywhere. And she began an all-day-long monologue about her love of (?)/fear of cats – ‘the’ cat in particular, and all cats, generally.

I like cats Mum. I do like them. They won’t eat my toes. No they won’t.

I ‘m really scared of cats Mum. I don’t like that cat. Keep me safe Mum!

On and on and on… Phil and I tried numerous tactics to rid ourselves of the cat when our attempts to reason with Peggy failed. Eventually, after being sprayed with water pistols and deterred by some strange cat-repelling substance purchased at Bunnings and sprayed liberally around the perimiter of the house, it got the message. Or maybe it died. We don’t know.

So, the cat was gone and Peggy seemed OK… Until Juddy was born. Then her fear of cats returned – the random sighting of one in our front yard didn’t help – and many other fears were added to the catalogue. Dogs – no need for them to be in sight, just the sound of one barking in the distance is enough to set her off. Lan’s dog Clapham is the dog she fears most. He’s a real bundle of energy, quite jumpy really, and she clings to me so hard when we are in their backyard, her legs a vice around my waist, her tears hot and pitiful. Birds, especially ones that swoop. And “anthonys”… It took us a few weeks to figure out that this is her term of reference for ants. We’ve had a bit of an infestation recently, and she was worried they’d eat her up.

Phil and I hate seeing her so distressed, and our backs ache from carting her around. She won’t leave the house on foot anymore.

It’s not only animals. The lawnmower’s groan gets her trembling, fingers in her mouth, a wail of “yayayayaya…” A motorbike speeding past – “What’s that Mum?? Mum?!!” And then the rangehood fell off the wall, with a crack and a thud, and she won’t walk through the kitchen anymore. She’s scared the oven is going to collapse on top of her pretty little head.

We’ve tried the tough love approach. Only makes things worse. We’ve babied her, as she clearly wants to be babied. I guess this is giving in and enabling, or something. My Gran suggested being honest – telling her that dogs do sometimes bite, but that we won’t let one such dog anywhere near her. My good friend Alana suggested a whistle, that she could blow to scare away a passing animal. I like this plan, but it’s obviously not a workable option in every instance.

I hope, as she grows accustomed to our new family dynamic and realizes that she needn’t be the baby in order to be adored, these fears will gradually slip away. We’ll file them away to tease her with when she’s grown. For now, though, the situation is far from funny.

The third time around...

Woah. Where to start? As always, the first few days at home with a new baby have been a composite of moments of utter peace and larger chunks of chaos. Overall, things have been much simpler this time. I have faith in myself, and I possess the knowledge that things will shift and develop, that there will be plenty of good days and plenty of not-so-good nights, and that although I may not be a perfect parent, my kids could do a lot worse!

The feeding. It started so well, it was effortless, completely effortless. The first week my boobs felt the way your face does when you have a severe sinus infection - heavy and throbbing. It must have been around Day 4 or 5 that I had my one and only teary moment, and that was due to the pain. My right nipple had been chewed up but my little guzzler, it was beeding and frayed, and there was some red streakiness on the underside of my boob that made me think mastitis was around the corner. But I iced it and fed from it, teeth gritted and back arched in a spasm, and lo and behold, all better now. Judd now weighs 4.55kg at 2 weeks of age, he's lovely and pink, doing plenty of yucky things in his nappy and is what I would hesitantly describe as "placid"... For now. But all signs suggest that he and I have quickly become a functional feeding team, and that is just the best thing. I feel very lucky.

The sleeping. It's not been too bad. I am just going with the flow for now, will try to exert a bit more influence over him when he gets to about 6-8 weeks, but for now just following his lead. It seems to be working. I am determined not to stress out about it. He refuses a dummy, makes the most disgusted faces when I try to push one into his little mouth... And then there was the time I made him gag and spew. Oops. Maybe we'll avoid dummies altogether this time? Ha. Unlikely.

The screaming... None. No screaming. He grizzles for up to two hours each evening, just the usual wind/reflux type symptoms, but most of the time he seems... Happy. Maybe it's the red hair? Hard not to be of a sunny disposition when you have a head of such vibrantly coloured hair!

The birth of our baby boy Judd...

So, I am finally a mother of three... Three little individuals, each such a wonder in their own right.

The last few weeks of my pregnancy were very rough. I was dealing with some gross tummy troubles which I won't detail here, symphis pubis dysfunction and increasingly frequent and intense Braxton Hicks contractions. I also felt like a bowling ball was twisting and bouncing inside my pelvis, about to explode out of me at a moment's notice.

The day before I went into labour, I was alone for much of the day, with O and P in daycare. I felt very ready to welcome this baby, really quite desperate to expel it from my long-suffering body. That evening, as soon as I lay down in bed, the Braxton Hicks started up again. At around 12 they started waking me up. At 1:30, the first real conraction hit... I literally leapt from the bed at this point, and felt that sick trickle of dread as I realised I was about to do it all again. As much as I had been longing for it, now that it was happening, all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and hide.

Even though I *knew* this was it, I asked for Phil's validation. When he saw me start my Juju stomping, and get cranky when he (in his haste to please me) chose a non-maternity dress for me to wear to the hospital, it all came back to him. I had a number of people to call - Mum, Lani, my midwife, my mother-in-law - and was a little scared of jumping the gun. But really, much more afraid of delivering a baby alone in my house and scarring my kids for life with my murderous screams. So I called my sister, and she agreed it sounded like things were starting. I called my midwife Jane, and agreed to meet her at the Birth Centre in about 30 minutes.

For some reason I aways feel compelled to take a walk outside when I am in labour. So I did this. Despite the rain. And then Noelene showed up and we were off. I had a few contractions in the car, one when another car was stopped next to us at the lights - judging by the expression on his face, the driver could obviously tell something was very wrong (or right,as the case may be). We were lucky to get a park quickly and speedily made our way up to the first floor. This was at around 2:30am.

Jane was there, running the bath for me,and I was all set to hop straight in when my waters broke and - uh oh - they had a nasty greenish tinge. Meconium. The bath was no longer an option. So I settled for the shower. My support team took in turns to offer me water and rub my back, and meet my every need, basically, which I was pretty good at communicating via short, sharp, barks! The problem with the shower is that there is no back support, so sitting there on a chair and then a fit ball, I quickly grew tired and uncomfortable. I moved to a mattress next to the bed and leaned against the bed, kneeling. All the while, remember, I am banging either my feet or my hands during the contractions, trying to match the intensity and speed of this banging to the severity of the pain. This technique served me well when I gave birth to Peggy, and it was helping me again this time around. I have the scars to show for it - my toes ended up all scabby as a result.

The pain was getting really strong at this point. My back was aching too, and Jane started to think the baby was posterior, given the location of the heartbeat and the back pain. She didn't tell me this straight out, but I could gauge that this was what she was suspecting, and so I asked her. Big mistake. The minute she confirmed this I felt myself start to give up. I was so afraid of a prolonged second stage after what I had been through with Otis. But I rallied as best I could and kept on going with my leg/arm work. I focused on not screeching, on keeping the sound I was making low pitched and constant. I repeated "healthy pain" in my head, over and over. I moved around like my life depended on it. And when I started to feel like I was dying, all of a sudden that ferocious urge to push arrived, and I pushed Judd's big, red head out in one go! I think I surprised everyone in the room, no one was quite ready for that... Next contraction and he shot out of me, along with a few litres of fluid. Phil caught him with a little assistance from Jane. He passed him between my legs up to my very weakened arms and I wept with relief and love. The first few seconds all I felt was the exquisite joy of the birth being over, of the end of that torturous pain. The baby's presence meant little more than evidence that the whole experience had come to a blessed end. I felt the unparalleled sense of achievement that makes giving birth such a unique, life changing moment in a woman's life. And then I was just overwhelmed by love and admiration for this mucky, squirming, red-headed (!) boy I had just brought into the world. He was born at 3:53am. The birth was wonderfully straightforward and quick. It was a perfect way to bow out of my baby-making days.

Time sort of stood still then, but fairly soon after I popped him onto the breast, and, would you believe it, he latched on perfectly straight up, and fed there, contentedly, for an hour or so. I felt nothing short of elated! We were all so filled with joy at having experienced such a textbook birth together. Mum and Lan just adored him, and Phil was as proud a Dad and partner as ever. The placenta was delivered easily, the blood loss was TOTALLY NORMAL, my uterus began to contract back to size just as it should. I didn't take any of these things for granted - each aspect of the birth that went so swimmingly only served to make me more and more thankful, and to boost my confidence. It was all going to be OK. I could do this. My body could do this.

Judd Micah weighed 4.3kg, measured 54cm and had a head circumference of 38cm.

His eyes are a navy blue for now, but I think they'll turn brown.

His hair is a stunning shade of copper.

He's spoiling me with his settled demeanour, easy feeds and plenty of sleep, but that could all change with the wind, as I know only too well.

He looks like me, like Oti, like himself. He's robust, has an intense stare, and definitely feels like "mine". Love, love, love him.